


In Good Faith

by JezebelGoldstone



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Christmas gift, Fluff, Gen, Kidfic, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Promises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:40:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JezebelGoldstone/pseuds/JezebelGoldstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock was very young, someone explained to him what it meant to make a promise in good faith. More than thirty years later, Sherlock watches John from afar and makes a promise in good faith that he intends to keep, no matter what the price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Good Faith

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MiyakoToudaiji](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiyakoToudaiji/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, Miyako. Someday we'll celebrate Christmas together. Just not this year.

* * *

 

 

“What does ‘good faith’ mean?” Sherlock asked.

He was three, and last week Mrs. Gerhardt (his newest nanny, the last one (Miss Hodge) having been dismissed after Mycroft spent thirty seconds looking at her without blinking, then half an hour alone in the study with Mummy) had explained to him what ‘faith’ meant. According to her explanation it seemed all faith must be good, so Sherlock did not understand why she would say ‘in good faith.’ It seemed. . .

“Whatsit called when something’s said two times?”

Mrs. Gerhardt smiled him. “Which question would you like me to answer first, Willow?”

(She called him that because he always managed to slip away from her in the garden of an evening; after the first two days she gave up trying to find him on her own, and would instead stand on the verandah and shout for him until he came running through the dusk. She said his face was so pale it stood out against the dimming light and looked like a will-o’the-wisp, and thereafter Willow was his name.)

“Both,” he said.

She laughed. Miss Hodge had laughed, too, but it was a different sort. Sherlock wondered what would happen if Mrs. Gerhardt started laughing high and breathy like Miss Hodge had, rather than deep and rolling the way she did now. Was it perhaps because of the way she laughed that Miss Hodge had been dismissed?

Mrs. Gerhardt said, “When something is said more than once you can say it was repetitive, or redundant.”

“Repti--- reapetitit--- repa---”

Mrs. Gerhardt said it syllable by syllable a few times, Sherlock repeating after her, but then he managed to say ‘redundant’ on his own the first time round. He nodded to himself, sure he’d remember the words, and looked up at her expectantly.

“In good faith means that it’s honest,” explained Mrs. Gerhardt.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, and opened his mouth to inform her why she wasn’t doing a very good job explaining the whole thing, but Mrs. Gerhardt scooped him up into her lap before he could begin.

“What bit doesn’t make sense?” she asked. No one else ever asked Sherlock things like that.

“What you said on the phone to your son Rob,” Sherlock answered. “About promises. Faith means believing in something you can’t see and you said faith is always good and then you called promises ‘good faith’ which is redundant.” He smiled up at her, pleased at having said it so neatly.

“What a smart boy you are!” she cried, kissing his curly hair. “But you oughtn’t listen to my phone conversations. I went out into the hallway to talk to him so you wouldn’t hear and you know it.”

“But what does it _mean_?” Sherlock demanded. What did it matter if he wasn’t supposed to hear? He _had_ heard, and it didn’t make sense, and Mrs. Gerhardt understood, so she ought to explain it to him.

“What I said was that if you make a promise in good faith, and then through no fault of your own are unable to keep it, God will keep it for you.”

It was almost like she was speaking English. Sherlock could tell. He knew all the words, but didn’t understand why she’d put them in that order. They made no sense. Like Mycroft did, when he would come home from school for Christmas and sneak into Sherlock’s room and fall asleep on his bed while they talked, and he’d go on talking in his sleep. He always said full words, but he never made any sense, and that’s what Mrs. Gerhardt sounded like now.

Before he could inform Mrs. Gerhardt that it sounded like she had fallen asleep, she sighed, and hugged him to her. He couldn’t see her face, and her voice was quiet and sad when she spoke, but it was near his ear so he could hear it anyway.

“Sometimes, my Willow,” she said, “you’ll make a promise that you desperately want to keep. Something big, and important, that you would give anything in the world to be able to do. Your heart will ache with how much you’ll want it. And then something will happen, or won’t happen, or will go wrong, and you won’t be able to keep your promise no matter how hard you try. But when you’ve made an important promise to someone else, and you love them, and they love you, and you both want the promise kept. . . if you have faith, and wish with all your heart, it will happen anyway. Even if you’re not the one to do it.”

“Why?”

“God will do it for you.”

“Why?”

“God is a sucker for truth and love.”

“Why?”

“Because he invented and personifies them.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s perfect.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s God.”

“Why?”

“Because he is.”

“Why?”

“No one knows."

“Why?”

“Because no one else is God.”

“Why?”

Five minutes later he was still asking. Ten minutes after that she was still answering.

The questions and answers had both gotten silly by that point, though, and the pair of them were giggling like children.

 

* * *

 

Thirty-three years later Sherlock didn’t remember Mrs. Gerhardt. If he had been shown pictures and told about her, he may have recalled a vague sort of childish hate; if pressed he may have confided that she was his least favorite nanny. He would not under any circumstances remember that while she had been with him she was his favorite nanny, and remained for many years his ideal against which all other adults were measured and found wanting; nor would he remember that he hated her not for who she was, but for the fact that she left him.

Likewise, under no circumstances would he have remembered their conversation about promises made in good faith. He hadn’t deleted it, because by the time he learned how to delete things he’d forgotten it already. Not once in the intervening thirty-three years had there been any evidence to suggest that even a fragment of their conversation remained anywhere in his hard drive. Had anyone been around to study him, they would have been forgiven for concluding that the entire thing had left no impression upon him whatsoever.

 

* * *

 

John kept asking for miracles. It was driving Sherlock round the fucking twist.

It was driving him to _swear_ , which was neither intelligent nor helpful. Not that anything about the situation could be dealt with intelligently, and not that there was anything to be done that could help. The fact of the matter was that John _lived_ ; he was alive, he breathed, he existed in the world.

True, John may have stoically refused a cane though his limp was unquestionably back; he may have gone an hour out of his way on more than one occasion to avoid Hyde Park, Regent’s Park, Bart’s, and the entire length of Baker Street; he may have kept asking for things that ought to be _normal_ , dammit, and calling them miracles, _but he was alive_.

And he was going to go on living, and Sherlock was going to force the world to become a place where it was possible for John to do just that, so help him God, even if it killed them both.

Which it just might, and at the moment Sherlock was willing to bet it would kill him before it killed the good doctor. For a while, the first few months at least, going after Moriarty’s web had been exciting. Yes, it would have been more exciting if John were there, but his absence didn’t detract from the thrill of the puzzle. Sherlock’s mind was constantly working, and he loved every moment of that.

He wasn’t sure exactly when it had changed. It would be easy to say that things had become more difficult after Sherlock first killed someone, but that would be oversimplifying. It was wishful thinking to imagine he’d suddenly grown a conscience after committing his first murder (and it was murder, even though it was also a form of preemptive self-defense, and what did it matter anyway, since John was still alive), and the truth of the matter was that there was no dividing line, no before and after, nothing he could point to and say “Before this event I was having fun, and after it I was miserable.” That was too easy.

He could, however, point to what might be called the tipping point, the point at which misery had begun to outweigh elation. He knew when that point was, because that was when he first began watching John.

It wasn’t until he was on a plane bound for Helsinki after wasting thirty-six hours stalking John around London for the first time that the word ‘comfort’ made its way into his head. Was that it? Was that why he had done this? Sherlock was more miserable than happy, and so he’d instinctively sought comfort? And the comfort he had sought (the only comfort that would work, really) came in the form of John Watson? Could that possibly be true?

There were many unpleasant truths Sherlock had to deal with while he was away. The fact that he needed comforting was only one of them, and not the worst. So long as he never needed to explain that to another soul, he could admit it to himself.

So whenever the chase became too much for him, whenever misery outweighed elation, Sherlock would go back to London and lurk around John.

That was how he found out about John’s obsession with miracles.

He’d been in the cemetery when John had stood at his supposed grave and asked for his supposed ‘one last miracle.’ It was not, however, the last miracle John requested. Not by a long shot.

“Don’t be dead.” “Don’t leave me here.” “Come back to me.” “Give me a sign that you’re all right.”

Soon his visits to John were more torturous than comforting, but he found he couldn’t stop. Even when he knew that seeing John would just make it worse, would just make everything worse, he couldn’t stay away.

And now things were worse than ever. Moriarty’s web was crumbling, true, but a few strands were proving tenacious. Sherlock was loosing things left and right--- loosing leads, loosing opportunities, loosing insights, and more recently loosing sleep, loosing hope, loosing will--- and he was tired and hungry and hurt and he just wanted John to come with him, just wanted to do this thing together.

No. He couldn’t. It was too dangerous. Besides, John may have had no idea, but Sherlock was well aware of the fact that Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson’s lives were being held against John’s. If John disappeared, even if Sherlock could somehow keep him safe, it was likely his only other friends would die anyway. Sherlock wasn’t sure how he would cope with that. He was sure, however, that John would probably never forgive either Sherlock or himself if that happened. So Sherlock stayed away.

If only it could be like their first case together. If only there was suddenly the sound of a gunshot, accompanied by the sound of one of the bad guys hitting the floor. If only John would burst onto the scene when Sherlock least expected him, would swoop in and save Sherlock’s life and giggle with him as they tried to walk inconspicuously away. If only, if only.

Sherlock stubbed out his cigarette when John emerged from the building across the street. His most desperate wish right at that moment--- more desperate than the wish to end Moriarty’s organization, more desperate than the wish to bring John with him, even more desperate than his wish to keep John alive--- was for John to _speak_.

It was too risky for Sherlock to get physically close to him; even being in the same city was stupidly risky. It was also too risky to call John’s phone, even if just to hear his voicemail. Planting cameras or mics didn’t even bear thinking about. No, the only way for Sherlock to hear him was this: sitting in the abandoned flat opposite John’s new building, holding a long-range microphone gun with the headset over his ears, waiting for John to come out and wishing more desperately than anything that he would say something. Anything. Didn’t even matter what.

John sighed, and stretched, and Sherlock used one hand to press the headphones closer to his ears so he could better hear the air leaving John’s lungs, the rustle of his coat against his arms. John tipped his head back and looked at the steely sky, something almost like a smile and almost like tears lurking behind the edges of his mouth.

“One more miracle, John,” Sherlock said, surprised by the sound of his own voice. “Ask for one more miracle. I don’t care what it is, I’ll do it. I promise. One more miracle, John, just for you. Anything at all.”

He meant it, he was startled to find. He truly did. Even if John repeated one of the other ones, even if it meant Sherlock would have to reveal himself and put everyone in even more terrible danger, he _did not care_. He _wanted_ to go to John, wanted the man to know he was alive and living to keep him safe. He wanted John with him, and suddenly realized that though this was true, had always been true, he was no longer precisely sure what he meant by that.

“Sherlock, if you’re up there,” John said slowly, still looking at the sky. Sherlock’s heart pounded so hard he could feel it against his ribs. “If you’re up there, one more miracle, Sherlock. One more miracle, just for today.”

Sherlock didn’t breathe. For a full one hundred and eight seconds, John didn’t speak.

Then John sighed, and smiled, and shook his head. “If you’re up there, make it snow.”

The breath he’d been holding left Sherlock in a whoosh. John snapped his head down, looking around to see if anyone had heard him talking to himself, and Sherlock put away his equipment before getting up to follow him.

Five hours later Sherlock was huddled in a window seat in a jumbo jet, the engines revving as it prepared to take off and drag him unwillingly to Goa. He blinked; startled out of his reverie by movement outside the window. Then he blinked again, three times, almost unable to believe his eyes.

It was snowing. In London. Not just a little, not wet snow, not sleet, not some-snow-but-mostly-rain, but _actual_ snow. Movie snow; huge, gorgeous white clumps that somehow made the rest of the world look like it was holding still as they swirled and settled and fell through the frozen air.

Sherlock felt something under his ribs again, but this time it wasn’t a pounding heartbeat. It hurt much worse. He smiled anyway, though.

His breath fogged the window when he said, “Happy Christmas, John.”

 

 

 

 


End file.
